Where the Devil Passed (1)
At some point, Isaac could no longer remember the last time he'd felt excitement or elation. Even if it did flicker to life, it soaked in like a fox's rain in the desert—fading away without a trace, leaving neither warmth in his heart nor any lasting mark.
Yet even at over seventy years old, there were still a few things that stirred him. One was building a magic tower in Goethe territory.
Right now, it felt like an impossibly distant, pie-in-the-sky dream. But Isaac was determined to make it reality in this life: a tower in Binvelt, unbound by class or nationality.
He wasn't driven by radical ideals of equality or freedom like the republic's revolutionaries. The real barrier to magic's progress was class and borders. An environment free from such constraints would accelerate development by a decade or two.
And it wasn't just for his magical ideals. A influential continental magic tower would become a vital pillar protecting his house. If changing the massive tides of the future was impossible, the wise choice was to greet them from a position of strength.
Growing Binvelt was the first step, and the upcoming Goethe tournament would lay another small foundation stone.
But first. I need to wrap this up.
Isaac checked the letter that had arrived from Violet. It reported suspicious movements within Bernsi.
It was so obvious it almost made him sigh.
The heads of the great families had offered their necks willingly because of a deal with the marquis. In exchange for their representative deaths, their houses and fortunes would go untouched.
The marquis had kept his word. Or more precisely, the count had.
But the remnants of those great families hadn't anticipated the count behind the marquis. Unable to abandon their greed, they refused to slip away quietly with what they had.
Had they done so, no blood would have needed to spill. But they couldn't. Bernsi had thrived on the black market since its founding; giving up their wealth and status was no easy task.
It was only natural. They surely harbored grudges against the marquis who had publicly executed their fathers and masters.
"How history repeats itself, generation after generation. People never change."
Isaac recalled the countless history books he'd read and the worldly news from his previous life. Two things never changed with time: people, and war.
He penned a letter.
"Anyone outside?"
"Y-yes, young master."
The temporary valet, standing in for Hans, answered in a trembling voice.
"Deliver this to Violet of Baisman."
The boy took the letter.
"What's wrong with this ale?"
"You wanna hole punched in your throat or what?"
Bill snarled at the grumbling Baisman members. It was a bizarre sight. Not long ago, they'd been at each other's throats.
Of course, one side still itched to kill the other.
The Baisman had attacked the Nears gang for business reasons—to bring the expanding black market under the marquis's control. But from the Nears' perspective, it was different. Over half their members had fallen to Baisman's blades without a fight.
To thugs who'd never held a sword properly, the former republican soldiers of Baisman were unstoppable.
Forced together under Goethe's name, their mutual hatred lingered.
"If not for the young master, you'd all be coughing blood and croaking. That ale's probably poisoned anyway."
Bill muttered.
"Tastes poisoned already."
Pallichi's quip sent the gathered Baisman into roaring laughter.
"You fuckin' bastard?"
Bill's face flushed purple, but he couldn't charge. On Isaac's orders, the dingy inn—practically a Nears hideout—was swarming with Baisman. The only Nears member around was the dimwitted barkeep.
The ragtag Nears, made of vagrants and beggars, lacked the brains to show up. With their boss Bill already fuming, the rest were likely worse.
Had they split attendance evenly, half would have died—and mostly Nears at that.
"You crippled-arm, crippled-leg fuck. Once you're healed, I'll smash 'em again."
"Knock yourself out."
Pallichi shrugged off Bill's threat. It wasn't enough to intimidate or offend.
He'd taken three dimegtrium bolts—one arm and one leg useless. The arrows had been deliberately poisoned, slowing recovery. Without his aura level, he'd be dead.
"Aw, scary gang boss. I could spar you if you want."
"If he's too much, how about me?"
Three Baisman closed in on Bill, half-drawing swords from their sheaths. Overt threats and mockery.
"Let's see what the slum gang boss is made of."
"Handled crazy Nears, so you got some chops, right?"
"Wanna see? I'll show ya."
Bill shoved his face nose-to-nose, replying with reckless bravado. He couldn't fathom where this courage came from.
He'd started as a thief, betrayed his bandit crew to survive, then sneaked into Goethe Manor for loot. Somehow, he'd ended up gang boss, with an unexpected attachment to his crew.
They were idiots—filthy, vile. But they were just thrashing to survive. Weaklings banding together because they couldn't alone.
When he heard Baisman had butchered them, relief that their blades had missed him was overshadowed by rage at losing his men.
"Republic runaways actin' all high and mighty. Coward deserter shits."
Bill spat each word like venom.
"Guess you really wanna die."
The Baisman's malicious banter turned to killing intent. To exiles, "deserter" was the worst slur.
Shing. One Baisman, enraged, fully drew his sword.
"Fine. Let's die then."
Bill whipped out his dagger.
The rowdy inn fell silent.
"Shouldn't we stop 'em?"
"Who cares? Plenty of other useful gangs."
The Baisman whispered.
"Hey, Bill!"
Pallichi suddenly bellowed.
"Fuck, you scared me. Don't say my name, asshole. Gives me chills."
"What were you thinking, wiping out the execution society?"
Pallichi pressed on, ignoring Bill's hostility.
"No need, right? Letting the great families wipe your side would've helped you too. We massacred your guys, like you said. Commissioner's orders or not, executing was your call."
The sword-wielding Baisman hesitated at Pallichi's words.
"What're you getting at? Young master ordered us to listen to the girl, so we did."
Bill scowled.
Pallichi took a swig of ale instead of answering. Tasted like shit, as usual.
"Stronger loyalty to the young master than he looks."
"Bullshit. Just had my reasons."
Bill recalled the magic contract with Isaac—and the bizarre spells he'd witnessed. Defying Isaac meant death.
"Whatever the reason, thanks. Capturing the great families saved my ass."
"The fuck...?"
Bill gaped. He wasn't alone.
"Captain, what the hell?"
Even the sword-drawer looked baffled.
"Won't apologize. We had our reasons too. Now, put the sword away."
"This slum punk calls us deserters, and you take it!?"
"Not wrong, is it?"
"Not from guys who kidnap, rape, and murder like it's breakfast!"
"Your equality and freedom seem pretty blind, huh."
Pallichi glared.
"Hah, unbelievable."
The Baisman sheathed his sword grudgingly and stormed out.
Pallichi ignored him, sipping more ale.
"Everyone, drink this swill. More gang bosses show, it'll taste worse. Barkeep—another round, make it two. Don't pout. We'll pay for it all."
"...Hah, what're you waiting for? He says he'll pay."
Bill sighed at Pallichi's easygoing tone. The innkeeper, unsure if he was running a gang den or a tavern, refilled mugs with a conflicted look.
An hour passed. Two. Three.
Drunken Baisman grew rowdy, tension gone. As booze flowed, Bernsi talk faded; stories of their republican lives dominated—training, battles, revolution, the king's head on the guillotine.
Exaggerated tales they'd told hundreds of times, but they never tired.
Yet as most Baisman ranted about the past, Pallichi and Bill sobered up.
"Not one's coming."
"...Fuck."
Now side-by-side, they eyed the entrance.
They awaited other gang reps—those aligning with Baisman. Isaac's will, really.
[...Elevate Benders to mayor and cooperate bringing the black market above ground. In return, guarantee citizenship and jobs in the city. Relay this.]
Part of Violet's letter to Isaac. Cooperators were to gather here by midnight, before the cathedral bells.
"You sure you spread the word? Most are illiterate."
"Think I didn't? Explained simple to my boys and sent 'em. Don't wanna make more enemies either."
Bill grumbled.
No-shows meant defiance of Isaac—more foes for Baisman and Nears.
"Shoulda crushed 'em lighter, republic blade-boys."
"Who saw this coming."
Pallichi, sick of ale, lit a rolled cigarette. Pipes ruled the kingdom, but revolution brought cigarettes to the republic.
He puffed harsh smoke from the candle.
Pallichi was thorough on missions despite his slacker vibe. He'd butchered rival bosses, their lackeys too.
Bill was lucky—away at Goethe Manor during the fights. No gang would buy Baisman's city rebuild pitch now.
Dong—dong—dong—
The church bells tolled.
"...No one after all."
Pallichi chuckled hollowly as the inn door creaked.
Not another gang.
"Bo...ss..."
"Odo? Why're you...?"
Bill's eyes widened. The vagrant staggered in, sword in his back, then collapsed.
Pallichi rose on crutches, limping over.
"Dead."
Bill closed the man's eyes, face twisting in fury.
"...Worse than dogs."
"This guy's?"
"One I sent with young master's message. Fuck, perfect. I'll chop 'em up."
"Wait."
Pallichi stopped Bill from grabbing his sword and charging out.
"Why? Want me to slice you too?"
"Outside's too quiet."
"Fuck that."
Bill ignored him, but Pallichi yanked him back, sending him sprawling.
"Gah—fuck, you...!"
"See what almost hit you first?"
Bill shut up mid-curse. A black iron bolt embedded in the door.
"Everyone, away from windows! Archers out there!"
Pallichi bellowed, ordering alert.
"Weren't the great families scattered?"
"Makes sense now."
"Fuckin' scum—all in with great family remnants."
Pallichi nodded silently at Bill's curses.
No time to discuss gang-great family alliances.
"F-fire!"
The innkeeper yelled from upstairs, fetching supplies.
"Bill~ Bill~ Stupid Bill~ Coward Bill~ Spineless Bill~!"
A raspy taunt-song blared from outside—mockery forced into a tune.